Hate
by Queen of Fairyland
Summary: Snape's thoughts after HBP. Short oneshot. Please read and REVIEW might use as part of my A2 coursework so feedback is appreciated. COMPLETE. Final draft posted.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: Snape's thoughts after HBP. **

**A/N: I'm thinking of using this as part of my A2 coursework, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks.**

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Hate. It's easy enough to say in the heat of the moment, people throw the word around like it means nothing. Fools. If only they'd felt it, because that isn't so easy. Especially when that hate, that loathing, is directed at yourself.

I've done many awful things in my life time, teased, taunted, killed and tortured the innocent, and I've always held a certain disliking for myself. But this is by far my worst act, the fact that I was given permission, ordered to, doesn't seem to matter, the guilt and the deep seated self loathing still remains.

As I run to Draco, the boy for whom I've basically given my life for, deep regret wells up inside me. Not just for the atrocity I just committed, but for letting my anger loose on Potter. It's not like he couldn't do with being taken down a peg or two, but screaming at him, cursing him, probably isn't going to help me in the long run. Because the beautiful irony of it is that I know, I just know, he's going to be the one who kills me, who gets me in the end. I saw it in his eyes tonight, and the pure hatred in them, something I know he usually reserves for the Dark Lord, unnerved me.

Not that it isn't a fitting end to my life, I know that I honestly deserve it, it's just it has to be _him_. If it hadn't been for his arrogant, self centred, stuck up father then I probably wouldn't have turned to the path I did. My fascination with the Dark Arts would have been there obviously, but I wouldn't have become so obsessed in using them to exact my revenge on the world in general.

But still I realise that I don't hate them, either of the Potters. What I feel towards them is nothing compared to the disgust I feel with myself at the moment.

And Dumbledore. I hate him almost as much as myself. He had to choose me didn't he? I still don't know how I did it, how I killed the one person who ever believed in me. It was that silent plea that did it. Those quietly uttered words. The complete desperation, the pleading and begging tone Dumbledore inserted into my name. If _Dumbledore_ was begging for something, it had to be important, so I did it. Killed him. The greatest sorcerer of all times. And I hate myself for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello readers! This is my final draft of my coursework that I'm handing in next week, thought I'd post it here after the first version because it's developed a lot since then.**

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**Internal monologue/stream of consciousness of Snape's thoughts after Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince**

I do believe my life as a spy just ended. Not in the way I had hoped of course. I was hoping for a moment of pure satisfaction seeing the look on His face before he killed me for my betrayal, not the look of forgiveness and acceptance on Dumbledore's as I killed him. That wasn't how it was supposed to end.

But then again how is something like this supposed to end? It is war after all; it isn't going to be easy. I know this but I have always hoped for it to end, for me anyway, with redemption. With my freedom.

Instead I will serve until I can no longer, until I make a mistake or until Potter or one of his accomplices catch up with me. I have no right to complain, I pledged my life to this irreverent cause of my own free will. Even though I may have been young and misguided at the time I still did it.

I was young and foolish and consumed with a thirst to prove myself. To whom was I attempting to prove my worth? It could have been my father I suppose, which is rather unfortunate really, as he was the first muggle I was instructed to kill. I was welcomed with open arms after that incident. Perhaps my mother -but no- it was more of an act to protect her from my father's abusive clutches. To prevent him from laying another of his filthy muggle fingers upon her.

My peers? Lucius certainly left an impression on me whilst we were at school together. I continued on the path along which he directed me even after he left Hogwarts. My current situation is a testament to his 'pureblood teachings', which he enforced upon my impressionable eleven year old mind soon after we met.

Could it perchance have been my tormentors of seven long years whom I was trying to prove myself to? It is certainly the answer that makes the most sense. An erroneous attempt at vengeance maybe? A chance to one day curse their final breath? I certainly despised them enough to do so, but that by itself could not have been the reason. I wouldn't have bound myself to the service of another merely for the chance to gain retribution, they were not worth that much effort.

I can only conclude that I was young and foolish, full of anger and made a rash decision. Much as I've seen the younger incarnation of Potter do on many an occasion, and now unfortunately, Draco Malfoy as well. How ironic, comparing myself and Draco to Potter of all people. The boy who foolishly brandished his wand at me as I ran from Hogwarts. The boy for whom Dumbledore sacrificed his life. The boy who Dumbledore made me take his life for. The boy who I despise, who I try to convince myself I hate but know I cannot. That hate is reserved for someone else.

Hate. It is easy enough to say in the heat of the moment, people cast the word around like it means nothing. Fools. If only they had felt it, real hate, because that is not as simple. Especially when that hate, that loathing, is directed at yourself.

I've done many awful things in my lifetime; teased, taunted, tortured and killed the innocent and I have, at times, harboured a certain disliking for myself. But this is by far my worst act. The fact that I was given permission, ordered to do it, doesn't seem to matter. The guilt and the deep-seated self-loathing still remain.

As I ran to Draco, to whose mother I had vowed that I would protect, the boy for whom I have now basically given my life, deep regret welled up inside me. Not just for the atrocity I just committed but for letting my anger loose on Potter. It's not like the insufferable brat couldn't do with being taken down a peg or two. But screaming at him? Cursing him? That probably isn't going to help my inevitably bleak future. Because the beautiful irony of it is that I know, _I just know_, he's going to be the one who kills me, who puts an end to my wretched excuse for an existance. I saw it in his eyes tonight. The pure hatred in them, something I know he usually reserves for the Dark Lord, unnerved me.

Not that it isn't a fitting end to my life. I know that I deserve it, it's just it has to be _him_. If it hadn't been for his arrogant, self orientated, egotist father then I probably wouldn't have turned to the path I did. My fascination with the Dark Arts would have been there obviously; born of my desire to remain at Hogwarts, my home, to teach, but I wouldn't have become so obsessed with using them to exact my revenge on the world in general.

Still, I realise that I don't hate them, either of the Potters. What I feel toward them is inconsequential when compared to the disgust that I presently feel toward myself.

And Dumbledore. I hate him almost as much as myself. He had to choose me. I still don't know how I did it, how I killed the only person who ever believed in me, who gave me a second chance.

It was that near silent plea that did it. Those quietly uttered words. The complete desperation, the pleading and begging tone Dumbledore inserted into my name. _Dumbledore_ doesn't beg. It seemed so wrong, so alien; so intensely obvious that I didn't have a choice. I couldn't ignore it.

So I did it. I killed him. I killed the greatest sorcerer of all times.

And I hate myself for it.


End file.
